Just the other day I was tidying the kitchen when I heard the sound of someone clearing her throat. I turned to see a girl standing in the doorway. She could have been no more than eight years old, but her face was curiously pinched, like that of an old lady. She was pale, the tendrils of her hair clung to her forehead, and she stared at me with dark, glittering eyes.

Hello, she said, in a whispering voice like that of a baby doll, I'm Evilyn.

Why, little girl, I exclaimed, However did you get inside this house?!

My name's Evilyn, she repeated, taking a step toward me, And I want us to be the best of friends.

I gripped the edge of the counter, suddenly feeling dizzy.

I need to sit down, I said.

Oh, dear, cooed Evilyn, are we having one of our spells again?

Nonsense, I protested, I don't have spells. Just a little tired, that's all.

Dizzy, perhaps?, she enquired, following me to the chaise where I sat down.

How on earth did she know?!

There now, close your eyes, she said, stroking my feverish brow. She smelled of currant bushes, of brambles, hedges, and thorns.

But why was I suddenly so flushed?

And why did Evilyn's hand feel like ice against my skin?

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Happy October, dear reader! I hope there's a little bit of creepiness in your life these days. Delicious creepy, not call 911 creepy. I hope there are pumpkin chocolate chip cookies and spicy hot chocolate, harvest moons and walks with friends.

Did you remember I had a little giveaway going...Lucy Sparrow, if I'm not mistaken? Well, I'm thrilled to announce we have a winner and it's Amy A.!

Amy, darling, I'm so happy your number was called. I'm sure you and little Lucy will become fast friends. Let's get in touch soon to exchange mailing information.

To everyone else...thank you for your kind comments and for playing along. I don't express often enough how I enjoy the company of your words.

I must say I wish I could offer you all an actual prize rather than something in lieu of the prize. I had the crazy notion perhaps I could make an offer to give a piece of artwork to anyone who wished to send me a mailing address, but I already know how terribly short I fall of such good intentions. Your enthusiasm for my artwork really tugs at my heart, though (especially those who have been playing along for ages)...if only there was more time!

I suppose I'm wishing, in lieu of the prize, something lovely comes into your life for which you've also been waiting a very long time.

September 21, 2012

It was that time again. Time to set down the works of Camus and muster the gaiety demanded of a glittering socialite. Lucy Sparrow could hardly bear it. The thought of attending Bunny Mittens' party was enough to make her want to cash in her trust fund and go off the grid.

Bunny Mittens was, by all accounts, insufferable. She was a line cutter, a pencil borrower, and a copycat. Why, only yesterday Lucy had caught Bunny staring at her spelling test. The little sneak raised her hand first to say how Constantinople was spelled, when everyone knew Bunny Mittens could not have spelled a word like Constantinople if her life depended on it.

Everyone, that is, but the teacher, who awarded Bunny Mittens a gold star!

The disappointment, the sense of injustice, was unbearable. Lucy went home and carved an exact likeness of Bunny out of a block of cheese and set it in her hamster cage.

"Lucy, are you coming? It's almost time to go."

Mrs. Sparrow's voice was as cultured as the strand of pearls around her neck, belying the fact she grew up on a small farm in the middle of nowhere and spent half her life hidden in trees.

"I don't see the point of it. I don't see the point of anything," said Lucy through clenched teeth.

"There now, darling, I think that's enough existentialism for you today," said Mrs. Sparrow, her eyes shining with a look that made her seem both present and far away all at once.

"Bunny Mittens is a dirty cheat!" cried Lucy, stamping her foot.

"No one can take from you what is truly yours, my dear girl," said her mother. She bent down and gave Lucy a kiss, and where her lips touched Lucy's cheek, a tiny golden star shimmered for the rest of the afternoon.

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Dear reader, would you like a chance to win little Miss Lucy Sparrow? By leaving a comment at the bottom of this post, your name will be entered in the drawing. If you mention the giveaway to a friend or promote it using any means of social media, please feel free to enter your name again with each mention.

I hope you have a beautiful weekend. I am convalescing, I suppose, whatever that means. Can a run be considered part of convalescing? How about a walk? Would anyone like to come read me a story? I must say I've received the loveliest offers of homemade soup from friends both near and far...such kindnesses are deeply felt.

August 13, 2012

And her devoted sister, who could not bear to keep her fingers out of it.

One morning the girl sat reading as her sister plaited her locks, adorning them with blossoms of Persian green.

It was nothing short of enchanting.

BUT the night before, these very same sisters came stomping downstairs, bursting with accusations defaming the character of the other.

It appeared that doll playing had gone terribly awry.

By the little sister's account, whenever she sang on behalf of her doll (who was a jazz singer), the elder sister said it was annoying.

To which the elder sister affirmed indeed it WAS annoying.

At which point the younger sister stared vindictively at her mother, as if this would be the perfect moment to reinstate the death penalty, preferably something Roman in nature.

The mother, to her credit, did not fly off the handle and declare a moratorium on the next ten years of fun, but rather tried to plead with the young ladies to consider a gentler approach to the matter.

To which the elder sister insisted the younger sister made everything IMPOSSIBLE and the younger sister vowed she would like to kick the elder in the stomach.

Such pretty manners!

No one could blame the mother for getting a bit shrill in that moment. After all, she only wanted to spend five uninterrupted seconds on the couch with her husband, franchement, if that wasn't too much to ask.

Where were those emergency swear vials, anyway? Wasted on a ruddy scorpion sting??!

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p.s. This post is for dear Lia and anyone else who might assume life is all hugs and sugar cookies in the Tollipop house. Somehow I failed to take a picture of last night's altercation, but imagine a few tear stained cheeks and scathing glances, and a mother who was pushed beyond reason and threatened instead to take away the dollhouse altogether and THEN won't we jolly well have a grand old time?!

March 13, 2012

When breakfast was over and the children had gone to school, there was often a peculiar noise to be heard in the nursery. It was a scritching, scratching sort of noise, and it could mean only one thing.

Lettie Scribbles had come to make trouble.

Lettie Scribbles was a mouse, and not a highly regarded one at that. She spoke like a chimney sweep, leered, and bragged of her short-lived career as a pickpocket, glorifying a life of crime while conveniently omitting the fact she was no longer in possession of a tail.

It would take a fortnight to recount the scurrilous deeds of Lettie's past, including the time she nearly shut down Parliament because of her penchant for the prime minister's personal stash of cheese.

But of the vast spectrum of shenanigans attributed to Miss Scribbles, there was none from which she derived greater pleasure than this: vexing the dollies of Tollipop Place.

Oh, the capacity for mischief within one errant mouse!

For it was she who left droppings upon their fine china, she who nibbled their stockings, she who made crude gestures when the dollies speculated as to the affections of one Sir Timothy Hastings.

Sir Timothy Hastings was, of course, a bumblebee. He was soft and furry, the color of sunflowers on a perfect summer day. Maybe he did have just one wing and was, for the most part, generally acknowledged to be dead. But he was the closest thing to a suitor the dolls had ever known and they were terribly fond of him.

"Rawther," said Eleanor, the frosty twin,"I'm more inclined to favor strychnine."

"Don't mind if I do," smirked Lettie, flouncing into the nursery and flashing her bloomers for all to see.

"Have some respect, Miss Scribbles," breathed Lady Beatrice, "You are in the presence of a gentleman."

"Wot? That old thing?," cried the mouse, "And him, deader than a doornail?"

"Hold your tongue, you strumpet!," burst forth Quiet Bunny, the color rising in her cheeks, "Being past one's prime is not the same thing as irretrievably dead."

If her deep and abiding affection for the bee had been a secret, the cat was now out of the bag.

"I should say not," agreed the dolls, nodding one to another as Quiet Bunny's nostrils flared at an alarming rate.

But Lettie was off to the pantry and missed this concensus against her. What did it matter, anyway? What did she care for the opinion of some stuffy old dolls? She had matters of greater concern, such as the possibility of cats and the fact she would be going home to an empty nest that night, lined only with the silk from Quiet Bunny's stockings.

January 10, 2011

It was a party, like all the other parties. Men standing around, pounding each other on the back. Oh, rawther, they exclaimed, Hawhaw, old chap!

Women with creamy shoulders and red lips, baring their teeth at one another in dangerous smiles. Any moment now, one of them would fling her head back and erupt in peals of laughter like a chandelier that has been dropped from the second floor.

Lucy Higgins could not bear the scene, she could hardly abide it! For one terrible moment, she fought the urge to stamp her foot. Yet who had she to blame but herself for letting another perfectly promising evening disappear into the ether?

Perhaps that was the most maddening thing of all.

When it was time for the cake to be served, she felt a bit more composed. Perhaps she would get a piece with a sugar rose on top--this was always something to hope for! As the cake was cut and the pieces placed upon lavender china, Lucy's hand flew to her throat and clutched at her pearls. One could not behold the look of naked longing upon her face without having to turn away.

Finally it was her turn to be served. The piece was crowned with a rose of spun sugar and a tiny hummingbird which hovered in the air! Lucy gasped. In spite of herself, she held out both hands.

Then something unspeakable happened: Blaine Willowby, of the Cork County Willowbys, reached with his stubby fingers and snatched the plate right from beneath her nose!

Lucy stared at the second piece of cake which was placed into her hands. It was plain. No rosebuds. Just a sensible layer of icing which stretched on forever, as far as the eye could see.

It was more than a girl could be asked to endure.

Lucy Higgins shut her eyes. She was breathing heavily and the look of storm clouds gathered upon her face. Blaine Willowby, that stubby-fingered crown jewel of the Cork County Willowbys, was about to reap the whirlwind.

"I beg your pardon," said a voice.

A tall, dark stranger stood before her, holding out a piece of cake. The cake was adorned with a meadow, a brook, and a tree. Beneath the tree was a patchwork quilt and upon the quilt was a perfectly miniature picnic. There was a basket of cherries, a good, crusty bread, several cheeses, a bit of lox, a custard with sprinkles, and a crystal decanter of lemonade.

Lucy took a step closer. Was it her imagination, or did she feel the warmth of the sun upon her face?

"I couldn't help but notice," continued the stranger, "Perhaps you might be happier with my piece of cake...?"

A fox peeped out from a blackberry bush in the meadow. The brook babbled merrily on. A lark dipped and flew overhead.

Lucy Higgins could not know how long she stood gazing upon the scene. But anyone could see, by the look on her face, exactly what it was she wanted.

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Dear reader, happy Monday! Another giveaway and I am in a rush, as Caroline may saw her cello inhalf if I don't hurry downstairs to help her. Please leave a comment and I'll return to announce a winner on Friday!

January 04, 2011

Little Miss Lemondrop surveyed the room with a sniff. The usual boors. There was Cyril, with his odious cigar and penchant for dropping ash on the carpets. There was Forsythe. How many times had she slapped away his despicable, wandering hands?! Heinz and Wilhelm, heirs to the Oppenheim fortune, were off in the corner leering over a buxom Hollywood starlet.

It was not to be borne!

Who devised the particular instrument of torture known as high society?, wondered Little Miss Lemondrop, itching to clobber the culprit with a sturdy whalebone corset.

"Miss Lemondrop, I presume?"

Little Miss Lemondrop spun around and looked into the eyes of a tall, dark stranger. She swallowed hard. Still, she was not to be taken in so easily.

"Yes, you do presume," she replied, looking away as if boredom was her latest accessory, a new strand of pearls.

"Cut it out, my dear," said the stranger, moving closer and speaking in low tones, "I know a game girl when I see one. What if I were to tell you I have a raft tethered to the dock out back and I'm fixing to sail down the river as soon as I find myself a willing partner in crime?"

Little Miss Lemondrop's eyes grew very wide.

"But what about Cyril?," she stammered.

"Who's Cyril?," asked the stranger.

"My fiancé," she said, nodding toward the boorish chap who was, at that moment, guffawing at his own jokes and tapping ash all over kingdom come.

The stranger regarded Cyril for a moment, then turned to gaze into Miss Lemondrop's eyes.

"I don't know how to tell you, but this should be the easiest decision you ever have to make," he said.

And, to be sure, it was.

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Dear reader, I had every intention of hosting a giveaway for the holiday season...but then I opened the door and got trampled by a herd of cousins. And it has been a rodeo around here ever since (just kidding, it has been lovely...a very busy kind of lovely.)

Anyway, what better way to start the new year than to give away Little Miss Lemondrop? She is so spirited and full of adventure. Surely you will find you have heaps in common. Surely the two of you will cook up all kinds of mischief and throw caution to the wind on more than one occasion.

I am giving away the original painting, although I do expect to scan Little Miss Lemondrop and offer a print version in my shop, since I think she is so sweet. And she is wearing that particular shade of blue I can never truly part with.

If you would like to be considered for the contest, simply leave a comment below. I will draw and announce a winner on Friday.

July 02, 2010

It was Independence Day. A day for which the feelings of freedom and equality burned so brightly in the heart of Constance Bunny she could hardly see a flag fluttering in the breeze without giving way to emotions of the deepest sort.

"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, a sob catching in her throat as little Percy Hedgehog walked by waving a pocket-sized banner from a twig. It was all too wonderful for words. Constance Bunny smiled gamely, the kind of smile one reserves to counter public displays of emotion.

As she fumbled for her handkerchief a sudden breeze caught the corner of the linen, the very piece her ancestral grandmother had embroidered with the likeness of Thomas Jefferson, and sent it fluttering into the street like a sign of surrender.

Constance Bunny watched in horror.

And then, another miracle--one that may not rival the significance of an entire country declaring itself simply done with an empire, mind you, but which was no less revolutionary in the eyes of one small, grey bunny--a sudden movement, a flash of cottontail, and there stood Buck Winchester at her service, chest heaving, with the errant handkerchief in his outstretched paw.

Constance Bunny thought she would faint dead away. Instead, she did what she always did when she was about to faint: acted Southern.

"As I live and breathe," she murmured, fixing the brash, young rabbit with a coy gaze, "if it isn't Buck Winchester."

Now it was Buck's turn to gulp.

"M-M-Miss Constance," he stuttered, his usual composure confounded in the presence of such a mesmerizing doe.

And like so many other great moments of conquest, the rest, as they say, is history.

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Dear reader, I hope you have a lovely Independence Day weekend. We are taking a quick trip to the woods where I fully expect to find such a bunny sipping her tea.

Would you like to enter a contest to win this wee original painting of Constance Bunny? If so, please leave a comment at the bottom of this post. If you are so inclined, please tell me something you love about the place where you live. This way we can celebrate small pieces of beauty the entire world over...

September 25, 2009

Delia looked at her students with an expression designed to mask the despair she felt inside. Why did Roland persist in wearing that flea-bitten racoon suit everywhere he went? It was mortifying. The other day he pretended to cough up a hairball. How could she be expected to work with that?

And what of Penny? Well, she was just a rabbit, and an excessively twitchy one at that.

The boy and his rabbit stared at Delia.

"You don't look like a witch," he said.

"Of course I'm a witch!," exclaimed Delia, feeling her cheeks flush hotly. How she detested having her credentials called into question!

"Well, you don't look like one," he insisted, scuffing the toes of his racoon suit in the dust.

"Are you really going to teach us to fly?," asked Penny, squinting in her skeptical way. She popped a green lolly into her mouth and let the juice dribble down her chin.

This was not to be borne! Delia swayed against her broom, calculating the odds that either varmint might be in possession of smelling salts. In the end she decided it was not worth the risk and refrained from swooning altogether. On to business, then.

"First up on the agenda," announced Delia, "A spot of tea."

"Tea?," said Roland incredulously,"What on earth does tea have to do with learning to fly?"

"Nobody flies on an empty stomach. Common knowledge," said Delia, snapping the agenda shut.

"Wait a minute. Are you trying to trick us into a tea party?" demanded Roland.

But the rabbit looked interested. "Will there be sweets?," she asked.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Delia's lips. "Oh yes," she crooned, "I've an entire house made of gingerbread right around the corner!"

"Poppycock!" scoffed Roland, "You nicked that from a fairy tale."

Delia scowled. Blast that boy and his literate mind!

The thought of sugar was making Penny twitch more than ever. "I say we give her a chance," she muttered, turning to consult with Roland, "If she proves to be a fraud, we can pinch the crumpets and make our getaway!"

The word getaway always worked on Roland. His entire life was spent dreaming up elaborate escapes using tunnels, spades, hot air balloons, and explosives. Too bad for him, then, that nobody could bear his company long enough toconceive detaining him against his will!

As hoped, Penny's suggestion had its intended effect. Roland wiped his hands on the mange of his suit and pulled himself up to full height. "I say, Delia," he exclaimed, "Let's have a look at that gingerbread house, come to think of it. Perhaps this is a plot line I'd be interested in following, after all."

*****

Dear reader, as you can see, I'm getting all kinds of autumn on. I will be stocking this print in my Etsy shop soon, but in the meantime I would like to offer the first run image as a little gift. If you are interested in playing along, please leave your name in the comment box below. You may simply say hello, but I would also love to hear about the signs of the season in your neck of the woods...whatever they may be.

I will draw and announce a winner on Monday.

Wishing you a crisp, fading sun, good things to eat, lovely autumnal weekend...

August 26, 2009

The world traveller sat on a stump in a field of lavender, looking out over a narrow valley hemmed on one side by soft, rolling hills and on the other a dark forest. Beyond the hills there were more hills. There were mountains, trees, rivers, and a marvelous bramble patch of periwinkle berries. There were towns with schools and libraries and bus stations. There were paths and highways. After that came the sea.

The world traveller sat calmly on her stump, as if she could see it all.

A rabbit came along. It was a lovely evening, just the right amount of crisp, and she said as much to the world traveller.

The world traveller agreed, then added by way of introduction: "I am a world traveller."

The rabbit drew closer. "Dear me, isn't that exciting! Where have you been?," she asked.

The world traveller scrutinized her knitting for a moment. "I have been to this stump. And from this stump I can see the entire world."

The rabbit, who was just a country bunny, had never dreamed of anything beyond the field of lavender. "What is the entire world?," she asked.

The world traveller sighed. "Ever so many places," she said, "There's a place called Bhopal, for example."

The rabbit had never heard of Bhopal, and it made her exceedingly anxious. To calm her nerves, the world traveller offered the scarf she was knitting.

"You see? It is a topographical map of the Andes mountains," she explained kindly. And sure enough, it was! Knit, purl, knit two, purl. The replica was exact.

The little rabbit slipped on the scarf, suddenly feeling very cosmopolitan.

There was a moment of silence as the new friends enjoyed the evening together.

"Do you think...," ventured the rabbit shyly.

"Yes?," prompted the world traveller.

"Do you think I could be a world traveller like you?"

The world traveller paused to consider her stitchwork. The Andes mountains always gave her such fits!

"Why, certainly!," she replied, moving over to make room for two, "What better way to see the world than with someone you love?"

February 04, 2009

The next day was Saturday and after Millie made her bed, dusted the furniture, and washed the dishes, she was able to go into the meadow village until tea time.She made a quick trip to the art store as she wanted to have some nice, colored pencils to trade with her friends at school.She did so admire Peony’s peacock blue, and after all, it was a Prismacolor!

After she had purchased her art supplies, Millie flew down the street to the candy shoppe.What she saw there made her glad she had an iron will and the power to hold back tears. No raspberry bonbons?!! Millie’s shoulders drooped. All her secret spying, her gumption to carry out her plan, gone to waste? No! She would not let this happen. Millie filled a bag to the brim with orange chocolate twigs.With an expression that would make a train stand still while at top speed, she marched to the counter and paid for the candy.Next Millie walked to the antique phone booth on the pebbles by the pond. She dialed Peony’s number.

“Operator,” said a voice at the end of the line.

“Hello?” said Millie.Then she grinned. “Peony, I know it’s you.Will you please let Emmaline, Jane, and Susannah know that we each need to have a bag of orange chocolate twigs for school on Monday?”

“Reason?” said Peony.

“To teach that mean Gertie Snippet a lesson,” said Millie, hoping Peony would not ask for further details.

“I’m on it!” said Peony, and then she hung up.

Millie looked at the time on the huge clock that stood on top of the post office.It was nearly half past eleven!She started out to her cottage, hoping Corinne had remembered to set the table so they could have an early tea.

When she got home, she sat down to a surprisingly sweet salad of cranberries, dandelions, and lettuce with a delicious dressing that Millie could not place (it was made with acorns and mushroom paste). Afterward, her mother helped her practice her piccolo for an hour, though Millie felt it was much, much longer than that…

After many hours of planning and rethinking and planning again, Monday finally arrived. Millie took great care to make sure her shell pink skirt and blouse were tucked in properly, her hair was brushed and tied back with a few pins, and most importantly, that the candy parcel was tightly shut to prevent spills.

Millie started out for school. As she was waiting at a crosswalk, a familiar green buggy pulled up. Peony, her father, Emmaline, Jane, and Susannah were all squished inside. As Millie climbed in, she was assured by Peony that everyone had brought their goody bags.

“Hint, hint,” she said in an undertone, at which everyone burst out laughing, even Peony’s father, though it was obvious he didn’t know why. When the girls arrived at school, they scurried down the hallway to Miss Robin’s room, where they were forced to take a pop quiz on the water cycle and memorize an epic poem about an ill-fated romance. Finally the bell rang for break and Millie and her friends went immediately to their favorite spot beneath a hickory tree and opened their pencil cases and treat bags. Millie finally got the peacock blue pencil crayon of her dreams, but only by trading magenta and agate gray, which were a great tribulation to part with. As they were talking and snacking, they noticed Gertie and her accomplices staring at them. By and by the girls came over.

“What are you eating?” demanded Priscilla. She snatched one of the candies out of Jane’s hand and examined it. “It looks like a treat that naughty girls shouldn’t have.” She popped it in her mouth.Millie, Jane, Emmaline, Susannah, Peony looked at her in shock and horror.To Millie’s surprise, Gertie also looked a trifle upset. Following Priscilla’s lead, the other henchmice grabbed a chocolate and stalked off. Gertie hesitated.She did not have the cruelty of heart to pilfer someone else’s goody bag.

“Wait for me!,” she cried. But the other girls just kept on walking. Some of them called over their shoulders things like ‘pathetic’ and ‘so long’. Gertie’s eyes filled with tears. Millie looked at her sympathetically.All of the anger she felt against Gertie melted away as she saw her begin to cry.Millie scooted over and Gertie sat down beside her.Then she handed Gertie an ocean mist pencil crayon and a chocolate twig.

“Thank you, Millie,” Gertie said with a sniffle.

Millie just smiled.

*********

Sophie was very excited for me to publish the conclusion to her story, dear reader. I asked her about the part where Millie's mother helped her practice the piccolo for a seemingly endless hour...and she feigned innocence, though a bit too strenuously for my liking. I suppose there is no reason to interpret the story on a personal level after all, given that the main character willingly jumps out of bed on a Saturday morning to tidy the house! Fiction at its finest, all the way around.